


Take it out on me

by Trin303



Series: Kinktober 2020 [5]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303
Summary: Kinktober 2020Prompt: Angry SexWhen Helen doesn't listen to John in a dangerous situation, a discussion of trust ensues. Soon, the discussion breaks down.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Series: Kinktober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962415
Kudos: 18





	Take it out on me

It took a lot to get John Wick angry. It wasn’t really a natural emotion for him.

He couldn’t blame people who shot at him, not when they were trying to protect themselves. He didn’t get emotional when people betrayed him. That was what people did. They looked after themselves and everyone else be damned. John didn’t even get annoyed at waiting in queues or having bad service.

But then, Helen had the unique ability to make him feel things he had never felt before.

Happiness.

Wonder.

Adoration.

Jealousy. 

Fear.

Joy.

Longing.

Love.

It only made sense that she be the one to introduce him to complete and utter rage.

She knew about him, about his past and the choices he had made to bring him full circle in the underworld. She knew what he did and how he got his money and she never judged him.

But always, in the back of his mind, there was fear. That someone would find her. Thay someone would try to get to him by hurting her.

He was considered more dangerous than any monster and this sweet, kind woman was his one weakness. His only downfall was a 5'7 brunette who put sugar on her rice crispies. 

And, because it was bound to happen eventually, John found himself the target of a particularly angry brother of someone who had once been his target, inside the Museum of Modern Art. On a date. With Helen.

They were looking at an exhibition in block art, joking about the possible meaning each block must hold, when John saw him. Wearing a large coat that could hold any number of weapons. John knew first hand that metal detectors on the doors of museums didn’t mean shit to anyone who truly wanted to get a weapon inside.

Fuck.

And Helen, of course, hadn’t noticed.

She was nearly oblivious to people in the world who set out to do harm.

“I think the small yellow square in the center must represent his anxiety to use any cool colors.” She joked and John carefully positioned himself between the brother and Helen.

They had discussed this, early on in the relationship. That someday, inevitably, someone was going to come after him when she was near. And, when that happened, she needed to follow his instructions. 

“Menelaus.”

She froze, immediately on guard at use of their codeword. Danger was nearby.

“Where?”

“Behind us."

He had a plan for this. It was why he made her always carry a set of keys for his car and at least five gold coins. Why he made her memorize directions to the Continental from virtually anywhere in New York.

But when he told her to run, she didn't. She wouldn't leave him.

And it wasn’t fear, it wasn’t her being a brat. She refused to leave him alone, in danger. 

The rational part of his mind, the side he tended to listen to more often than not, was trying to keep him calm. Was trying to make him understand her perspective. If she had told John to run, he wouldn’t have considered it.

But she didn’t have his training. It had taken her weeks just to convince her to get her to the shooting range. She flat out refused martial arts classes but agreed to attend twice weekly self-defense classes if only to get him off her back. 

It wasn’t enough. 

It wouldn’t have been enough if she had been alone or if he hadn’t been able to wrestle the gun away from the man. 

And that scares the hell out of him.

Pure terror had flooded his system when he realized that Helen wasn’t going to run.

And it had been fine. He had kept her safe.

She was safe.

She was safe.

He kept repeating that to himself but that pure terror had quickly turned to rage once the opponent was disarmed and eliminated.

He was angry that she hadn’t run.

He was angry that she had put herself in danger.

He was angry that Helen had seen him snap a man’s neck.

Mostly, however, John was furious that this was his life.

He had finally found something worth keeping. He had the love of a beautiful and kind and clever woman. And he could lose her. By a gunshot in the MoMA or an attack while she walked down the street. Someone could wire her car to explode or poison her takeout order. Helen was his but Helen was oh so breakable.

And he had lived his life in such a way that, because of him, that sweet and kind and beautiful, clever woman was in danger.

Once he had disposed of his enemy, he had wrapped an arm around her protectively and walked her quickly back to the car. She knew better than to try to soothe him when he was on guard for enemies. At least she listened there.

He got her to the car and then drove back home, white-knuckled. 

John wasn’t sure how the hell he was supposed to deal with the hot rage that coursed through him. Even at his most angry, he couldn’t yell at her. Because it was his fault. It was his fault that this was his life.

It was part of the reason he tried so hard to spoil her. She often resisted but when he could, he bought her wine and clothes and books and whatever he could get her to accept. It was a poor attempt to make up for who he was and what he was and it didn’t matter how many times she told him she loved him, how many times she told him that she accepted him as he was. He would never be enough for her.

He parks in the garage and Helen unbuckles in silence and goes into the house.

John follows, slipping through the door before it shut behind her.

“Let’s talk.” Helen says, slipping her sweater off and stepping down into the sunken living room. She sat on the couch and looked up, looking expectantly at John.

“I don’t want to talk.”

“You’re pissed.”

“You’re understating.”

Helen rolls her eyes, “and you're being dramatic."

"You could have died."

"So could've you!" She shoots back and he has to swallow to keep from raising his voice, "I am trained for this, Helen."

"I know!" And there's an edge to her voice, too, "I get it! You're this big, scary assassin and you know hot to handle yourself but," she looks at him pointedly, "you are also the man who picks up spiders and takes them outside. You are also the man who folds his fucking socks! So forgive me that I don't quake in fear at the sight of you!"

"I don't need you to be afraid of me; I need you to trust me!" He fires back.

"This isn't about trust," she argues and John wants to scream and yell and brake the fucking coffee table in half so that she understands. “If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t be with you!”

John shakes his head, arms crossed against his chest, “I told you to run. You didn’t run.”

“You wanted me to leave you.” And again, there’s that bite in her voice. That stubbornness and sincerity but she just doesn’t get it.

“I wanted you to trust me to protect you.”

“I’m not hurt, John!”

“You could have been!”

“I’m not the one with the bruised knuckles.”

She didn’t get it. She didn’t fucking get it.

“I know what I’m doing! I know how to throw a damn punch!”

“So you can throw a punch. Therefore, I’m supposed to leave you to fend by yourself?”

“YES!” He shouts, surprising himself, “Yes! You’re supposed to leave and get to safety so that I can do what I need to do!” John shakes his head, “If you had been hurt, Helen…”

“What, John? You get hurt every damn time you go out the door! Every time you leave my sight, I have to sit here and wonder if you’re going to make it back to me! I have to sit with the fucking knowledge that no one in your world even knows who I am! You could be hurt, in the hospital, or worse, and no one would even know to call me! Every time you’re late for dinner, I have to sit and wonder if you’re even alive! So no, when you told me to run, I didn’t run!”

John feels his body tensing because, again, that feeling of anger, of hot rage is so foreign. He isn't sure what to do. But he loves her and he has to keep her safe. And she needs to understand that she is the only thing in the entire fucking world that matters.

But Helen just shakes her head, “And you’re going to have to get over it because I’m not going to run the next time, either!” 

Like hell she’s not. John closes the distance, and reaches down. He grabs her shirt and easily pulls her to her feet and he slams his mouth into hers. Her lips will bruise. So will his. He doesn’t care. 

John lets go of her shirt and moves his hand so that one covers each side of her face and he deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth. 

And they have rules. Helen established some early in the relationship, sensing John’s discomfort with intimacy. Nothing crazy… just some ground rules.

The first of which was that beds were sacred. Bedrooms were sacred. His bed at his house, her bed at her apartment, or any other bed they used were off limits for fighting or arguing. Beds were for making love and sleeping. 

Which meant they weren’t going upstairs. Not yet.

Helen makes quick work of his shirt, yanking it from his pants and tearing it open. He wastes no time in doing the same, tearing her shirt from her body as she pushes her pants down and throws her arms around him and jumps. He lifts her and her legs come around his waist. 

She kisses him again, biting his lower lip. John groans and, again, she fuses their mouths together. Her tongue swirls around his, sucking on his, as John carries her around to the other side of the couch. She drops her feet to the ground, leaning up against the couch as John kicks his own pants off and out of the way.

“Turn around.” He tells her, pushing her as he does, so that she is facing the back of the couch. He pushes her head down, forcing her to bend over the back of the couch. 

John reaches around her, burying his right hand in her pussy. She’s wet and ready and that’s just too damn bad because he’s not ready to give it to her yet. His fingers circle her clit until she whimpers and then he slides two fingers roughly inside her. Helen swears, choking back a scream. His thumb resumes rubbing her clit as he curls his fingers inside her and uses his other hand to squeeze at her breasts.

Her hips frantically thrust, desperately trying to get his fingers deeper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck---!” She swears as her stomach tightens in pleasure.

And John takes them away, leaving her pussy clenching at nothing. 

“If you’d have run,” he tells her, whispering into her ear, “Maybe I’d let you come.”

She tries to turn to face him but he doesn’t let her move from where she is pinned over the couch. 

“I’m not going to apologize.” She growls back at him.

John takes his fingers, still soaked and dripping with her juices and shoves them into her mouth. 

“MM!”

“Good.” He nips at her ear, “Your mouth is better for other things.”

And she moans on his fingers, sucking them greedily. 

Good. That's all she's getting for now.

He uses the hand around her chest to hold her steady against him as he leans over her.

Her tongue twirls around his fingers and John bites ar her shoulder.

She whines and he feels vindicated. Thr helplessness of his fear and anger has mostly subsided as he takes control of her body..

The anger still lingers beneath the surface, though.

She could have been hurt or killed.

Hrr unwillingness to listen could have taken her away from him. And that was not okay.

John gives each tit a harsh squeeze before lowering his hand to his cock.

He's been hard since the moment he ripped her clothes from her body and now, he's going to use her.

He takes his erection in hand and guides it to her soaking cunt.

John slides inside her easily and Helen moans as her pussy clenches around him. Her teeth graze his fingers and he just pushes another into her mouth. The sound that escapes her is ungodly and John thrusts into her hard.

He thinks back to the fear that poured through him at the thought of losing her. The intense terror of knowing Helen was in danger and the hot fury that flowed through him when she was safe again but she hadn't fucking listened. 

His hips increase their pace, harder and faster and she gasps around his finger while his cock drives into her again and again.

"Next time," he growls in her ear, "I tell you to run, you run."

Ahe tries to shake her head but his fingers in her mouth and his hand hold her in place.

"Yes." He tells her, forcing her to nod.

Fine. If she wants to be difficult, he can be to.

"You're the only person in the world I ever have to repeat myself to, did you know that?"

She chokes on his fingers. Good.

"The next time," he slams her into the couch, "I tell you to fucking run," he does it again and she cries out over his fingers, tightening her hot cunt around him, "you fucking run. Do you understand me?"

She protests but it comes out in an incoherent mumble. 

He pushes his fingers deeper in her mouth so that she's forced to lean her head back into his shoulder. 

"This isn't a difficult concept, Helen. I don't tell you what to do often, but I expect you to listen when I do."

Again, she tries to shake her head but she can't escape his grip.

He rolls his hips and she gasps and shakes and he can tell she's getting close again. It doesn't take her much when she's already on edge.

"You want to come, baby?"

She hums and nods and John lets her.

"Yeah, I bet you do." 

He moves the hand on her hip around and rolls her cliy between two fingers.

Helen whimpers and John removes his fingers, "Then you need to promise to run."

Again, she protests and John takes his fingers from her mouth and she gasps for air. He holds the wet digits to her neck, squeezing ever so slightly. 

"Promise me, Helen."

She bites her lip, trying to grind her pussy back against him but John tightens his hand and pins her to the couch.

"You aren't coming until you promise."

"Fuck!"

"Promise me."

She’s fuming, trying to escape from his grip so that she can continue to rock back against him. He’s buried inside her to the hilt but he isn’t moving anymore, leaving Helen wanting.

“John, please!”

“Not,” he says lowly, “until… you… promise. And trust me, Helen ,you are going to want to promise before I decide that I’m done waiting. I will fucking torture you.

"I will fuck you on my tongue until you reach the edge and then I'll stop and come in your tits. And then, I'll do it again. And again. And again until you are a fucking crying mess.

"Or, you can promise me to not be reckless and I'll let you come right now."

Helen whimpers and nods, “Okay, okay! I promise!”

John rolls his hips once, “Good girl. Now what do you promise?”

She huffs a breath, trying to move against him yet again, but trapped by his arms. “I promise I’ll listen! I promise I’ll listen when you’re protecting me!”

And he moves, thrusting into her again as Helen starts to swear.

“Fuck.. yes! Yes, John!”

Helen arches against him, her body stiffening as his hand resumes its teasing ministrations as John pumps in and out of her.

The orgasm builds inside of her and a scream erupts. The only thing that keeps her from completely collapsing are his arms wrapped around her.

John feels the tension leaving his body, his anger disappearing, as he comes. His head rests on her shoulder, breathing in her sweet scent.

He remains buried inside her as he comes, waiting until he is spent to pick her up off the ground. John holds her tightly in his arms and turns around.

“Where are we going?” She whispers.

“To bed.”


End file.
